| | 1 | Author: | Hale
Sarah Josepha Buell
1788-1879 | Add | | | Title: | Northwood; or, Life north and south  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Sidney Romilly, the eldest of a numerous family,
was a native of New Hampshire. The local situation
of the little village in which he was born, offered few
temptations to the speculator, and the soil promised no
indulgence to the idle; but it abundantly repaid the
industrious cultivator. It was therefore inhabited, almost
exclusively, by husbandmen, who tilled their own farms
with their own hands, laboring actively six days in the
week, and on the seventh, offering, to that Being who
alone could crown their labors with success, the unfeigned
homage of contented minds and grateful hearts. My Dearest Mother,—I now take my pen to inform
you I am well, and hope this letter will find you enjoying
the same blessing. We had a very uncomfortable
journey, jolting along over the rough roads, up hill and
down; but we reached the end of it in safety, which I
take to be a special interposition of Providence, considering
the great length of the way, and my being totally
unused to traveling. Mr. Brainard has a fine house, the
prettiest I have seen in Charleston; and I like the house
well, and I should like the place very well if it were not
for the black people—niggers they call 'em here. Oh!
dear mother, you know how frightened I always was at
a negro—how I used to run behind your chair when old
Sampson came to the door, and always screamed when
he offered to step in. But, mercy! here the negroes are
as thick as bees; the streets are full of 'em. I am sure
I did not imagine there were so many in the universe.
When our carriage drove up to the gate, out bolted a
great black fellow, and Mr. Brainard shook hands with
him, and was as glad to see him as could be; but I trembled
all over, for I began to remember the stories I had
read of slaves murdering their masters and mistresses,
and many such bloody things. I guess Mr. Brainard
saw I was pale, for he told me not to be frightened at
Tom, who was one of the best creatures living. But
when we entered the hall, there stood a row of blacks,
laughing till their mouths were stretched from ear to ear,
to welcome us. They all crowded round my husband,
and I was so frightened, thinking some of them might
have knives in their hands to kill us, that I could not
help shrieking as loud as I could; and the slaves ran
away, and Mr. Brainard looked angry, and I hardly know
what happened next, for I believe I fainted. I am sure
if I had only known this was a negro country, I never
would have come here. They have a great many parties
and balls here. I don't go to the balls, for I never learned
to dance, and I think they are sinful; but I go to all the
parties, and dress just as rich and fine as I please. I
have a new head-dress, the prettiest thing my eyes ever
beheld; I wish you could see it. My husband buys me
every thing I ask for, and if I did not eternally see them
black people about me, I should be quite happy. Every
single day I am urging Mr. Brainard to send them off.
2
He always tells me it is impossible, and would be cruelty
to them, as they are contented and happy, and have no
other home or country where they could be received.
But I intend to tease him till he does. I don't care
where the creatures go to, nor much what becomes of
them, if they can only be out of my sight. Pray give
my love to Betty Baily, and tell her I wish she would
come and live with me, and then I should want no other
help. I often tell my husband I could do my work
alone, but he laughs, and says, “What a ridiculous thing
it would be to see you in the kitchen.” And besides, he
says, no white person will live long if they attempt to
labor in this warm climate. What to do, I know not,
but I am determined to get the black creatures away. My Dearest Mother—I received your kind letter of
February first, and I should have answered it immediately,
but I have had a world of trouble of late. I
do not know how to tell you what I have discovered;
but yet I must, that you may pray for me, that my faith
may be strengthened, and that I may be kept from temptation.
I have often heard you say, the children of professors
were especially protected by divine grace; and I
am sure I need such protection—for, don't you think Mr.
Brainard is a pope, or a papist, I forget which they call
'em, and he goes to a chapel and calls it a meeting, when
it is no more like our meetings than it is like a ball. I
have been twice, but I am determined to go no more,
and I say everything I can against it, for it is so different
from our christian worship I am sure it must be
wrong. I am sure you will be very much shocked to
hear of this, and I was when I discovered it; and I have
a thousand times wished myself in New England. But
don't say a word about it—you know who I would not
have hear of it for all the world. Your letter was the first consolation I have received
since we parted. You have not then forgotten me; you
will not then forget me, though my father has treated
you so angrily. But he is my father, and has always
been so kind, I must bear with his severity now without
murmuring. He says I am too young and inexperienced
to know what will most conduce to my own happiness;
but I know my own heart, and feel that my affections
can never be altered or divided. By your letter I perceive
you judge it best to accept the proposal of Mr.
Lee, and perhaps it is so. O! these cruel prejudices of
my father, that make such a sacrifice necessary. Why
should riches be thought so indispensable to happiness?
I would rather live in poverty all my life, than have
you exposed to the dangers of the seas to acquire wealth.
Yet, if you think it best to accept your friend's offer, I
will not urge your stay; only do not let time or distance
blot Zemira from your memory or your heart. You
need not bid me be faithful: I cannot be otherwise, for
the idea of you is blended with every thought, every
sentiment, and lesson you have taught me. And when
I read over those passages in my books your pencil
marked, I almost fancy I can hear your voice. I shall
read them constantly during your absence; but what
will remind you of My Dear Romilly,—When I tell you we reached
home in safety, and are now enjoying excellent health,
you will know that I, at least, am happy. But it is that
kind of happiness which makes no figure in description.
It is the quiet consciousness of peace, the calm security
of reciprocated affection, in short, the `sober certainty
of waking bliss.' And for much of this felicity we must
thank you; certainly for the final reconciliation, without
which Zemira's mind never would have been at rest.
And how shall we requite your disinterestedness?—your
heroism? We pray daily that God would bless you,
and assuredly He will, if to obey His command and do
as you would be done by is holy in His sight. Property
you do not want; yet, I will acknowledge my selfishness,
I have sometimes wished you did, that we might
show how highly we rate the favors you have conferred.
But gold cannot gain friendship, nor can it requite the
sacrifices you made for me. I will tell you how I propose
to reward you—even by furnishing you with wise
precepts for the better guidance of your sublunary course.
You, I presume, will allow that those who have done us
the most essential and generous services, are always most
willing to pardon our officiousness. The inference is
obvious. I feel secure of your favor although I should
harass you with my old saws by way of advice. My Dear Stuart—I have made a new acquaintance,
and one from which I promise myself much pleasure;
yet for fear you should call me romantic, I will describe
the man and relate the accident which introduced him,
and then I think you will allow there is a necessity—I
hope not a fatal one—for the present intercourse. “Friend Stuart,—Frankford certainly has, as you
intimated, his prejudices against America; still he is a
reasonable man, and although admitting conviction slowly
and only on the most irrefragable proofs, yet I think he
is becoming not only tolerant but liberal in his estimation
of our character and customs. Neither is it strange that
the aristocratical spirit of the old world should be alarmed
and revolt at the democratical influence which the new
is so rapidly obtaining. We cannot expect those who
pride themselves on an ancestry, whose pure blood has
flowed through proud veins for many hundred years,
will forget at once this fancied superiority, and look on
what they call our plebeian origin, without feelings of
contempt. “My ever Dear Nephew:—The sickness that oppresses
me, and which is hurrying me to the grave, is
on my heart. I am sick of the follies and vices of the
world; I am miserable when reflecting on my own. I
have longed and pined to write and confide to you all
my troubles and griefs; but I could not persuade myself
to damp the pleasures I hoped you were enjoying with
your friends. My Dear Mr. Romilly:—Your uncle is no more;
and his earnest request, must be my apology for addressing
you, and detailing some of the unfortunate circumstances
which have occurred to him since you left the
city. It is an unpleasant office, and one I would gladly
have been excused from performing; but I could not
refuse Mr. Brainard, and I trust your good sense will not
confound the narrator of evil tidings with the unpleasant
intelligence he must communicate. My ever Dear Friend,—It is but a short time since
I despatched you a packet so voluminous that it might
undoubtedly claim the respectable name of folio, and I
then promised I would not again intrude under, at least,
a quarter; but I must write, for there are feelings impossible
to be restrained when we are blessed with a
friend to whom they may be communicated. “My dear Miss Redington,—I hardly dare write
what necessity compels me; and yet I know, in my situation,
sincerity is the most atoning virtue I can practice.
Let me then spare all circumlocution, and briefly
state that our connexion must, from this time be at an
end. Circumstances which I cannot explain make it
impossible I should ever visit New England again, or
not till a distant period. I lament I ever saw you; I
lament our engagement. But these reflections are now
too late. Write not—forget me—or think me unworthy
your affection. May heaven bless you. Farewell! My Dear Romilly,—This is the third letter I have
written you since the misfortunes and decease of Mr.
Brainard, your excellent uncle. To the two others I
have received no answer: had they reached your hand
you could not have neglected me, so I flatter myself;
and I must believe they miscarried. To obviate all possibility
of a like fate befalling this, I have engaged Mr.
Tracy, who is on a tour to Boston, a friend of mine, and
one well entitled to your confidence, to take a trip to
New Hampshire and deliver it into your hands. Mr. Romilly,—Sir, we have traced Cox to New
Orleans, and recovered the money. It is all safe in my
hands, waiting the disposal you shall order. I hope it
will be convenient for you to come here immediately;
indeed, it is absolutely necessary if you intend to redeem
the estate of your late uncle. Dunbar was a good man,
but he has transferred the property to another; subject,
however, to the articles of redemption he entered into
with your uncle. “Sir—I have received your letter, and am glad of
your good fortune; but I think it my duty to inform
you our correspondence must be at an end. I know you
will want me to reside at the South; but to go there and
be a partaker in the sin of slavery is what I will not do.
You can doubtless find, in Charleston, some fair lady
more worthy your love, and more congenial to your
manner of life than my education and principles would
permit me to be. You need not write, for my resolution
is taken. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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